


Poets and Astronomers

by NimWallace



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Astronomy, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Ficlet, Fluff, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, One Shot, Poetry, Post-Canon, Short & Sweet, Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 13:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19442608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: Crowley loves to hear Aziraphale talk about things he loves, even if he isn't interested in them himself. Aziraphale decides to try this also.





	Poets and Astronomers

Crowley wasn't a poet and, in general, didn't enjoy poetry.   
He didn't much like long, fancy words just for the sake of it either. It all stank of arrogance and exaggeration and smirks cast across the room like shadows.   
If you were to ask Crowley who had invented poetry, he would probably tell you Heaven did, because that would be his best guess. In reality, Humanity invented poetry, and both sides took some of the credit for it.   
For Hell, an increase in vanity and empty pursuit, for Heaven, a form of affection and love.   
Crowley figured that if he wanted to write some cool sounding things down, it would always turn out better in a song. He enjoyed music, and always thought the concept of a story with sounds was a very clever idea, in the right context.   
Aziraphale, however, preferred classical music, which usually did not include a voice speaking of lovely or terrible things behind the riff of a guitar. He also had an affinity for poetry, and the art of words.   
Because of this, Crowley didn't talk of his disdain for the art in Aziraphale's presence, and listened to his ramblings about whatever great poet he was transfixed with at the time.   
“This _particular_ line has just absolutely surmised the whole thing perfectly, don't you think, my dear? How _elegant_.”   
While Crowley didn't have a real interest in the subject, and as much as he would never admit it, he liked to watch Aziraphale chatter on with delight about the things he liked so he entertained the angel.   
“You ever read one of those really long ones?” he asked one day. “You know with all the, erm, pages?”

He flushed, hoping he didn't say something really stupid. He really was out of his element.   
“Like an epic poem?” Aziraphale said brightly.   
“Yeah! Yeah, like that.”   
“Yes, well, of course there's the _Odyssey_ , and the _Iliad_ , and _Paradise_ _Lost_....”   
So he listened, and learned, and mostly watched the lines of Aziraphale's face crinkle in delight.   
  
“Do you actually like talking about this, Crowley?”   
The question caught him by surprise. Aziraphale was on about one of Wilde's poems, and he had been half-listening, half-watching as the angel explained it.   
“Oh, erm,” Crowley muttered. “Well, I like hearing you talk.”   
Aziraphale flushed, a smile quirking across his lips.   
“That's sweet, my dear, but. . .I'd hate to bore you.” Crowley shrugged.   
“It doesn't, I like to listen to you. You get all. . .excited. All smiley.”   
“ _Crowley_.”   
“Shut up.”   
Aziraphale was already beaming, though.   
“I have an idea,” he said, hands already twiddling excitedly. “Why don't we do something _you_ like today. Something I wouldn't normally do.”   
Crowley considered this for a moment. Dragging the angel to a concert would be some sort of disaster, he was sure. Aziraphale wasn't particularly fond of loud places, especially the type of places where people get pushed around and drunk and high. He wanted to get out him out of his comfort zone, not traumatize him.   
“All right,” he said. “I know a place.”   
  
The Royal Observatory in Greenwich was miraculously empty that day, the only visitors being a 6,000 year old couple and Aziraphale and Crowley, who ignored them and toured together silently.   
“This place is gorgeous,” Aziraphale said as they walked together, hand in hand. “Do you often come here?”   
Crowley nodded.   
“It's sort of. . .my place. Come for the quiet, and all.”   
They had to wait for night to fall for the grand finale of it all, when the dome on the roof folded, revealing the telescope and the universe, shining against the London skyline.   
“Look here, angel, you can see Alpha Centauri.”   
The three closest stars to earth. Close because Crowley had wanted them to be close, so that Humanity would have something bright to look at, something celestial to breathe. A bit of Heaven through a piece of glass.   
“Beautiful,” Aziraphale said in genuine wonderment. “What else do you know about the stars?”   
So Crowley told him, hesitantly at first, then with growing enthusiasm until he was babbling nearly as much as Aziraphale did. He didn't even know he was capable of talking so much.   
“Why haven't you ever brought me here before, hmm?” Aziraphale asked, leaning comfortably against Crowley's shoulder as they gazed up.   
“I dunno,” Crowley admitted. “Suppose I felt a bit private about it. It's. . .it's one of the few pieces of Heaven I have left, really. The stars.”   
“You helped make them?”   
“Yes. Long time ago.”   
They fell silent for a bit, watching.   
“Do you know why I talk about poetry so much, Crowley?”   
“Because you're a nerd?”   
Aziraphale feigned offense.   
“ _No_ , because poetry reminds me of you. And when I tell you about a poem, I-I feel like I'm giving a part of myself to you. A little piece.”   
Crowley smiled, just a bit. He took off his glasses so he could look properly at the stars.   
_“The fault, dear Brutus,”_ he said _, “is not in the stars, but in ourselves; for we are the underlings.”_   
The rest of the night was spent in a peaceful admiration of the universe. Some poetry is better left unspoken.


End file.
